


Marked

by 401



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Comfort/Angst, Fluff, Hydra, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Painting, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sensory Deprivation, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:21:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4704254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/401/pseuds/401
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky carried the mark of on his shoulder for too long. Steve fixes him where he was marked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

Bucky wished he could feel it. He wished he could feel the cool, bird’s-tongue strokes of the coated paintbrush Steve was sporting, but was frustrated by the numb lack of animation that his metal arm offered. Like a thick and calloused skin over sensitive nerves below, it blocked and stifled feeling; useful in combat, vexing when he wanted contact.

Steve was doing what Steve did best: covering, protecting and making right. Healing scars and soothing wounds that had been left all over Bucky like cattle brands. They were marks of ownership and suppression that Steve resented fiercely. His biggest issue had been that bastard red star on Bucky’s left shoulder. It represented Hydra in a way that the soldier could not escape, embossed on him permanently and always in his peripheral vision. They had tried sanding it off but the sounds of the sander had thrown Bucky off so much that Steve refused to continue. It had not actually done much damage either.

So now Bucky sitting backwards on a chair, his forearms resting on the backrest _(‘like a showgirl’_ , Steve had joked) and Steve was sitting next to him, painting over the star with metal emulsion. The Winter Soldiers head was clouded with comfort and sleepiness, pleasant contentment in the way that Steve was making up for Bucky’s lack of feeling on cold titanium by leaning forward every now and then to kiss the nape if his neck, or move his hair, let loose from any ties or bands for once, out of the way of the paintbrush. He would hold him still with a firm, warm hand, solid and reliable on his bare waist. There was a glassy yet warm orange glow coming through the window, warped by thin draped that just about protected Steve’s eyes from the glare of the Washington sunset without interrupting the light so much he couldn’t see. He always painted here, but he didn’t usually paint Bucky.

“Tell me if you need to stretch or walk around,” Steve muttered through deep focus, “You’ve been there for a while now.”  


Bucky would not have moved if you had tried to make him. He was thankful for Steve’s torturous perfectionism; it was enabling him to stay where he was for as long as possible. There was a pleasant heat coming through the window that he had been deprived of, but remembered and craved all the same.

“M’ happy,” Bucky sighed, voice muffled by his arms, “Very.”

Steve smiled to himself, ghosting his free hand up the line of Bucky’s spine, watching the almost invisible, downy hairs stand on end at the sensitive contact.

“I missed this the most,” Bucky said absently, staring at the dark wooden floor of Steve’s bedroom in front of him, “Being touched in a way that didn’t hurt.”

Steve paused his painting and sighed sadly before kissing the arch of Bucky’s eyebrow.

“I remember wanting contact so bad that once, I had to meet this scientist guy. I shook his hand and nearly burst into tears like a kid. I didn’t care that a few minutes later he was breaking my legs to see how fast I would heal. All I wanted was to…feel.”

Steve carded his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

“You won’t ever miss it again,” Steve reassured, “That, I can promise.”  


Bucky nodded, closing his eyes against the back of the chair and letting himself drift again, halfway between sleep and waking. He could sleep absolutely anywhere.

 

“There,” Steve sat back, satisfied with his work, “All done, just like the old days.”  


Bucky shook himself to concentration and looked at his arm. They had not actually discussed what Steve was going to paint beforehand, so a tiny flurry of anxiety shifted in Bucky’s stomach. He walked over to the mirror and turned to the side.

There was a blue circle over the star, leaving just the tips of its red points showing. On the circle as a white wing, exactly like the ones on the side of Steve’s helmet. It explained the last few nights with Steve sitting at his desk for hours with tracing sheets and pencils. Bucky had thought it was weird that Steve was sketching his helmet, but it was clear now; he had been copying the design.

“What’d you think?” Steve asked cautiously.

Bucky cleared his throat anxiously, swallowing sudden and achy tears pressing on his voice.

“Love it,” He croaked, “I really love it.”  


Steve grinned pulling Bucky into him by the waist.

“Good,” He whispered, “That paint’s darned expensive.”

Bucky chuckled into Steve’s shoulder, excitement at the fact he didn’t have to walk around with a Hydra souvenir pasted on him anymore.

Steve however, now that was someone he did not mind remembering.

Not now. Not ever.


End file.
